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AN IRON CREED 



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^ 



^ A DRAMA OK TO=DAY, 

IN FIVE ACTS, 

BV 

CHARLES ^STOW. 



CHARACTERS: 

DAVID DELMONT, A BANKER 

JEM BRAZENCRAFT,«/i'rt.s JOHN FAIRLOOK, A PARADOX 

BRACE NIGIITHAWK, A FRIEND 

FITZ-M ASHER DE PUTTIPAYTE, A LORD 

ANGLICE APEBULL, A COPY 

DR. STERNLAW, A RABBI 

SAM. BOODLEBANO, A CROESUS 

LOCUST PROMPT, A POLICEMAN 

RUTH, DELMONT'S DAUGHTER 

MRS. BOODLEBANG, A TUFT-HUNTER 

MRS. ARTHUR, A WIDOW 

MISS FAWN,. AN ORNAMJ^NT 

MISS ANGLE, '. A TYPE 

ALICE, A CHILD 

NANNY, A TREASURE 

Time, .... The Present. 
Place. . . . TnK Gkkat City. 



.^1 ^ 



AN IRON CREED. 



ACT I. 



Scene— A Reception Room in David Belmont's House. 

(Enter Nanny, flourishing a duster, and carrying the morning mail.) 

Nan. " The wasterful manner in which you peels pertaters would breed a famine 
in Ii-eland." Them's the compliments of the season Master Nickel squeeze dropped 
inter the kitchen ter perlitely pi-esent me, at a quarter to six this blessed mornin'— 
a hour when all Christian feller citizens, except slavin' Cinderellers is tranquilifor- 
onsly snorin' the happy hours away. He gits up for fear of losin' a second's day- 
light. Things in this ere house is drawn closer'n a bride's corsets. Master's so 
teetotally tight. I don't believe he'd sweat without deductin' it from the water tax, 
and you couldn't get inter his pockets with a crowbar. More'n half the time there 
aint nothin' fit for a orthodox heathen to eat, nuther. I've clean forgot whether 
ham's red, white or blue, and how roast pork smells— and sassengers ; fried sassen- 
gers! whenever I thinks of them, my mouth waters like I'd been salervated. If it 
wan't for Miss Ruth, I'd break out and jine the Salvashun Army. But she's a daify 
of the female gander, she is. When Dad quit, she took me in and cared tor me, 
and I'll stick by her, even if I have to eat unleveled bread all Christmas week. 
{Throws the mail on the writing de-k and upsets the ink bottle.) Now I am in for 
it! {HastUi/ moj^s up the ink ivith the blotters.) Heaving's, he's comin' now! 
{■Stuffs the blotters in the bosom of her dress and begins dusting vigorously.) 
{Enter David Delmont.) 

Del. I think I must trv and spare a thousand for that purpose ; it is a most 
commendable one. {Goes to loriting de.tk.) What's this ? The ink spilled and 
three sheets of good paper and as many envelopes ruined ! Girl, this is your 
doings. W ill you never learn that carelessness leads to extravagance, extravagance 
to want, want "to temptation, and temptation to crime ? 

Nan. {Aside.) And my wages to the poor house. 

Del. Where are all the blotters ? 

Nan. Please, sir, I used them to blot up the ink with. That's what they're fur, 

aint it ? , , ^ i. 

Del. Universal waste and destruction seem to be what you are tor. 

Nan. I'm sure, sir, I tries to attend to my duties with neatness and dispatch, as 
the little liver pill labels says. 

Del. You do ? And pray, after this fresh illustration, may I make so bold as to 
ask what you consider your duties ? 

Nan. Well, I am cook, washer, janitor, chambermaid, stoker, waiter, boot- 
black, errand hoy, snow plow, door tender, chores, mop, lady's maid, and I expect 
to be nuss some day. , , . , » 

Del. Don't let your impertinence presume too much on my daughter's favor. 
That will do. 

Nan. (Aside.) I should rather say it would. 

Del. Learn to do one thing well and carefully at a time. 

Nan. How can I, sir, when I'se expected to do everything all the time ? 

Del. I'll give you a few practical lessons, by charging you with some of the 
results of your cai'elessness. 



2 

Nan. (Aside.) If you finds aiiytliiiig valerable al)t)ut my pusson, I'll go balvers 
with you. 

Del. Some one is ringing ; go see who it is. (PJxit Nanny). 

{Opens ledger and looks "t if.) This won't answer. Over a hundred thousand 
dollars outstanding that's overdue. Times look ominous, and values are shrinking. 
I must push collections. 

lEnfer Rabbi Sternlaw.) 

Rab. Good morrow, David. 

Del. Welcome, Doctor. What news from the world's broad vineyard, to-day ? 

Rab. There are very many wcjrthy laborers still sorely in need, and I must add, 
so many of the true faith, that those who follow after strange gods should look to 
them first for succor. 

Del. Not so, Doctor ; for all the virtuous poor are God's children. There is no 
creed or nationality in want and suffei'ing. Even the Gentile in distress should be 
the rich man's brother. 

R^B. At least it cannot be denied that you secretly practice what you pr^^ach. 

Del. I do so, Doctor, because it is the will of Him for whom I hold the means in 
trust : and secretly from all hut you, because it saves me from being overrun by 
swindling beggars, social tramps and cheap philanthropists— the last of whom I 
dread the most. 

Rab. Wniild that I could equally interest you, my noble friend, in the grand 
and holy scheme of redeeming the Promised Land, and building up therein a New 
Jerusalem. You are qualified for it, and if you will but consent to assume the 
leadership, you shall rank in all after chronicles with Israel's most glorious re- 
deemers—the mighty Moses of a second Exodus. 

Del. Dreams ; idle dreams, my friend. A delusive vision, Viorn of a too literal 
application of prophetic teachings. Gaz^ not, with vain longings, from Nebo's 
heights upoji a kingdom you can never reach. This home of f reedo)n is our prom- 
ised land, and here the New Jei'usalem, in which to erect a living temple ; far more 
glorious and enduring than even that of Solomon — one founded on the eternal rock 
of patriotism and good actions. Hither let it be our aim to gather all our suffering, 
persecuted brethren, from out the house of the Old "World's despotic bondage, into a 
land flowing with the spiritual milk and honey of toleration, enlightened progress 
and universal protection. This is a practical age, and we must keep abreast of it. 
Here is a case in point — a heai't-rending appeal from the robbed and persecuted 
Jews in Russia. Sit down and look it over, and. let us consider the best means of 
succoring them. {Hands him a, paper.) 

{Enter Nanny luith a coal scuttle.) 

Nan. a ladv and a kid to see you, sir. 

Del. a kid'? 

Nan. Yes ; her'n, you know. Here they be. (Exit Nanny). 

(Enter Mrs. Arthur and Alice.) 

Del. You are welcome, Madam. (Hands her a chair.) 

Mrs. a. I fear, sir. I shall prove an unwelcome, as I am a most unfortunate 
visitor. 

Del. Is it not the fashion of the world to welcome the misfortunes of others : 
But what can I do for you ? 

Mrs. a. I am your debtor, sir. 

Del. There must be some mistake ; I do not remember ever having seen j^ou 
before. 

Mrs. a. I am Mrs. George Arthur. 

Del. Ah. indeed ! het lue nee {looks at ledger) . Yes; you are right. Here it 
is ; George Arthur, note of h nd for JiJoOO.OO. 

Mrs. a. He died last week, sir. 

Del. Dead ! Tliat's bad for both of us. 

Mrs. a. He meant honestly by you, sir, and had saved up a part of the money to 
pay you, but it all went during his long sickness. He told me on his dying bed, 
that "when he was hurt in the mill and unable to work for so long, but for j^ou we 
would have lost our little home, and he charged me to pay a debt so sacred. If you 
will but kindly give me time, I'll try and sed the place and do so. 

Del. Sell the place ^ Nonsense ! Sheer nonsense ! But you women folk know 
nothing about business The fact is, tiiere was an iinsettled account between us. 
Your husband did me a service for which I owe you something. Excuse me a 
moment, and I will look it up. (Examines It-dgerand writ-s.) 

Alice. {To the Rahhi.) Mr. Moses, where is your fish-pole, and the tomb stones 
with printing and these things (forming an X by a f/e.s/H/'c), that's in the big picture 
book at home '. 

Rab. lAy child, I am not Moses, nor nearly so great and good a man. 



Alice. Then you must be Mr. Hauta Claus. 

Kab. AVrong again, my bi-jght little Yankee guesser. 

Alice. No i Well, then, you're a real nice, good old grandfather, aren't you ? 
If I had one I should want him to look just like you. 

Rab. I am but a lonely old man, my dear, with neither children, nor o-rand- 
cbildren. " 

Alice. My, that's too bad, you dear old thing you ! I'm awfully sori-y, but I'll 
tell you what to do. Come over to our house and we'll play grandpa, and have 
such a lovely time. 

Rab. I should much like to, my kind little friend. 

Mrs. a. Alice, you must not trouble the gentleman. 

Rab. Not at all ; I assure you. Madam. She delights me. 

Del, [To Mrs. Arthur). I find, Madam, that the accounts po nearly balance 
the difference is not worth speaking of. There is your husband's note. (Hands her 
a folded pcqyer. ) 

Mrs. a. {Opens the note). But, sir, you have made a mistake. Here is a hun- 
dred dollar bill, besides. 

Del. Is there « Well, I deserve to lose it for my carelessness. So, keep it, and 
say no more about it. 

Mrs. A. {Falling on her knees). Oh, sir, may the God of the widow and or- 
phan bless and reward you. 

Alice. {Kneeling beside her mother). Mamma, may I pray for the good gen- 
tleman, too ? 

Del. Rise, Madam. I cannot abide that you should kneel to such as I. You 
owe me no thanks. All I ask— and that most earnestly— is that you never mention 
this trifling matter; for if you do, I shall have every needy person in town 
plucking at my mantle. 

{Enter Ruth.) 

Mrs. a. I most folemnly promise never to mention it, except in my prayers 
and to my own grateful heart. ' 

Ruth. Why, father, you are holding quite a levee to-day. 

Del. Rpceiving tribute ; that is all, my child. Mrs. Arthur, this is my scape- 
grace daughter. The wife of an old friend, Ruth, but lately lost to us. 

Ruth. I hope, that we shall be fiiends, too, and I sincerely sympathize with you 
in your great affliction. 

Mrs. a. Your sweet face proves it, and, surely, such a father should have an 
angel daughter to comfort him. 

Del. Madam, remember ! 

Mrs. a. If I remain, I shall forget myself. Come, Alice. 
(Enter Najnny, carrying a mop ) 

Nan. Mr. Nighthawk's comi:)laints, sir, and are you in ? 

Del. Yes. (Aside.) Though I fear I shall be out if I have much more to do 
with him. ( Efacii Nanny. ) 

Mrs. a. (Going). Good morning. 

Del. and Ruth. Good morning. 

Alice. By-by, everybody, and dear Mr. Grandpa, don't vou forget my 
invitation. 

(Enter Nighthawk, in haste. Runs against Alice.) 

Night. Get out of the way, you little monkey. 

Alice. Sir, I'm a little lady, and that's a good deal more than you will ever be • 
you big Mr. Crowley, you. (Exit Mrs. Arthur and Alice.) 

Night. I beg pardon. Miss Delmont. 

Ruth. I think the appology is due rather to the younger lady, Mr. Nighthawk 

Night. Then let me extend it to both. (Aside.) Curse her; how she cuts me 
whenever she gets the chance. I'll make her pay for it some day. 

Ruth. Father, haven't you forgotten something this morning ? 

Del. Not that I Icuow of, my child. 

Ruth. {Standing before him and jmckering t/p her mouth). What, nothing ? 

Del. Thanks for the tempting reminder, ana I will become your debtor by 
thus discharging my forgotten debt. [Kisses her.) ' 

Ruth. You shall be handsomely rewarded for such a gallant speech as that. 
Tiiere. (Handing him a bouquet.) 

Del. Tiiey are very beautiful, ray child ; as pui-e and fragrant as the giver's 
love. But you will spoil me by such extravagant remembrances. These costly 
luxuries are not for me 

Night. (Aside). What an infernal old skin-flint. 

Rab. (Asid-). What a strange, yet noble paradox. 

Ruth. Why, father, you deserve the best and brightest things of all the earth. 



Del. I have them here (emhrneing her), my child. Otherwise my ways are 
frugal and my wants are few. But I have much to do ; so I'll excuse you now. 

Ruth. Rather a curt dismissal; but I will pardon you if you will let me take 
the Doctor with me. 

Del. I think I can safely trust him with you. 

Ruth. (Going). Come, then, Doctor, and share my banishment (asicZe to him), 
and you shall tell i^e more of the gloi-ious wonders of the New Jerusalem. 

Rar. Would that I had a million such sympathizers. 

(Exit Ruth and Rabbi). 

Del. (Putting the flowers in a vase). How emblematic of the bloom and beauty 
of her young life ; and, yet, how soon they will fade and droop, as did her gentle 
mother. 

Night. Now that the coast is clear, I would pay sacrifice to the Golden Calf o£ 
Gotham. 

Del. Inflict your idolatrous wit, sir, on your brother heathens. I do not relish 
it. 

Night. (Aside). The insolent Dead Sea shark. But I am run to earth, and must 
bolt his wormwood if I would finger his shekels. (Aluud). Don't be so infernally 
crusty, Delmont, I've business with you. 

Del. (Aside). The Prodigal's clean shorn again. (Aloud). I presume you 
have called to pay me something. It is time. 

Night. Is this a place where people come to pay ? I thought it was a shop for 
borrowers only. 

Del. Then, sir, you are clearly in the wrong shop, for I have naught to lend. 

Night. Confound it, be a decent and accommodating Croesus for once, cane you ? 
I must have money. 

Del. Then you must get it elsewhere. 

Night. My honor is at stake. 

Del. So is my capital, and it is not business to stake that against your honor. 

Night. You already have ample security of mine in your hands. 

Del. Not a vulgar fraction of a margin, sir. I have already advanced more 
than is prudent. 

Night. Do you then refuse to help me, after all I have paid you ? 

Del. Excuse me, sir, you have paid me nothing. 

Night. But I mean to. 

Del. I can't discount an empty promise on the exchange, sir. 

Night. But you can charge double Shylock usury on promises secui'ed. 

Del. Can I ? Pay me the bare principal on what I have already loaned you, 
and I will forego the interest. 

Night. That's only a cheap bluff. But what other treatment can a gentleman 
expect from the son of a rag picking Jew ? 

Del. Your father was a gentleman. He deserved the threadbare title, and I 
have been libei-al with you on his account. Mine was both poor and humble ; but 
which one, think you, has most occasion to be proudest of his son ? 

Night. Good fortune has made the Jew most arrogant. You forget yourself. 
You was born on a dunghill. 

Del. And you wallow in one ; a reckless spendthrift, besmeared with the filth of 
every excess. 

(Enter Nanny, with a rolling pin). 

Night. You lie, you vampire, and I'll prove it on your swinish carcass, before I 
leave you! (Rushes at Delmont luilh uplifted cane. Nanny interferes and knocks 
him down with the Rolling loin). 

Nan. (Standing ovur Nlghthawk and pointing the rolling pin at him). Stir but 
a toe-nail, and I'll blow your brains out. 

[Curtain.] 



ACT II. 



A Drawing Room in Boodlebang's House (Dancing Music Heard in the 
Distance). 

{Enter Jem Brazencraft, alias John Fairlook.) 
Fair. {Inspecting hiinsrif in a mirror.) Not an uncommon sight, the Devil 
in a dress suit; but so rarely such a thorough-paod devil of a devil thus disguised, 
that I am really quite interested in you, Jem Brazencraft, alias Mr. John Fairlook. 
You was born a gambler, forger and thief: your fatlier, a felon; your mother, the 
frailest and silliest of dupes, and, yet, you ai'e a very honest sort of fellow; that is, 
with yourself to yourself; and something of an artist withal; for, while fate fash- 
ioned your uiside, you have made the outside fnirly .shine and dazzle with the veneer 
of imlished respecibabilitj' — at once society's worst enemy and greatest ornament. 
Posing with consummate and elegant assurance on a volcano's qualdng summit. 
All the excitement of the stage with the spice of danger added. You are a most 
fascinating and viUiaunus success, Jem Brazencraft. Permit me to offer you the 
assurance of my nK>st distinguished con-ideration. {Tald'^y j^ack of cards from 
]iis poch'et.) Let me get rid of these familiars; they have served their purpose well. 
( Tliroics cards into the fire.) 

( Enter NiGHTHAwac. ) 

Ah! brother blackleg, all hail! Your dirty fingers itch to fondle their share of 
this night's plunder. Well, there it is. {tiands him money.) 

Night. You ai'e devilish complimentary. 

Fair. And candid, as vi^ell; as my Lord Duffer, whom you have just helped me 
to so artistically skin, would roundly swear to, did he but know you. 

Night. The truth should not be told at all times. 

Fair. Granted; but to tell it semi-occasionally, my squeamish pal, capper and 
associate scoundrel, mightily refreshes a man, when hb has to live a lie all the time. 

Night. It never refreshes me. 

Fair. Y«ai never tried it. 

Night. I have something more pi-ofitable to talk about, if you will clap a stopper 
on that blistering tongue of yours long enough to hear it. 

Fair. Then Truth is muzzled. Lie on. 

Night. Jack, what would you give me were I to put a million dollars in your 
hand.-^ i 

Fair. This piece of excellent advice, you bankrupt satan: Don't attempt to 
play jackass and villian at the same time. The characteis wont couple. The one 
would kick tlie other's brains out — that is, if it has any. 

Night. Blackguard and chaff me all you will, but I can do it, all the same, if 
3'ou will let me steer you. 

Fair. And by what means ? 

Night. Marriage. 

Fair. Marriage! Ha, ha! I maiTy ? My maudlin match-maker, hereafter woo 
not Widow Cliquot so hotly. Your weak he.'d can't withstand her seductive bland- 
ishments. Why, man, the average woman disgusts me, and as for the rare excep- 
tions; well, they may serve as playthings. You've got an awful still on. 

Night. If you were in your sober senses, you'd see that a million dollars, whose 
only encumbrance is a I'are beauty and a wedding ring, is not the sort of a pearl to 
cast before swine. 

Fair. And yet, you see, I am not hog enough to swallow it. Why don't %-ou 
put the ring in your own snout i 

Night. Because I can't. Her father is onto me, and she dislikes me. 

Fair. Why, then, would you be the Buckingham to buckle this great fortune on 
my back ? You are utterly incapable of doing even me a disinterested favor. 
Plainly, what's j'our lay ? 

Night. Pcevenge and jirofit. 

Fair. So doubly natural a motive that you compel my confidence. 

Night. I have good reason to hate both her father and herself. 

Fair. You must have, to pi'opose such a son-in-law and husband for them. 



c 

Night. Besides, I could at once genteely rob and torture hi in. I know her dis- 
position well. She is roni;uitii\ high-spirited, imi)ulsive, ingenuous and affectionate. 
You are just the sort of man to catch her fancy, and, with my assistance, I am dead 
sure you can captui'e her and bag the million. But if we succeed I am to have ten 
per cent 

Fair. Of which ? 

Night. Why, the swag, of course. 

Fair. Oh ! that's very i-easonable for you. But who is this gilded paragon ? 

Night. Tlie only child of Delmont, the millionaire Jew banker. 

Fair. I know him slightly. 

Night. And shall know her well to-night, if you but will, for she is here. 

Fair. But hold! I liave some orthodox compunctions in this matter, and my 
conscience pricks me. Surely you would not have a Christian ; one who pays highest 
auction prices for a pew, turn apostate and wed witli Israel ? 

Night. I'd have you turn an honest penny one hundred million times, and, as 
you are situated, you'd better do it. 

Fair. Well, I'll risk turning a speculative eye upon her, and ivJien I marry, you 
shall be well paid for acting as best man, my thrifty stool-pigeon to Mercury and 
Venus. 

(Enter Mrs. Boodlebang, Miss Fawn, Miss Angle, Lord DePuttipayte, 
Boodlebang and Apebull.) 

Ape. ( To Lord DeF.) And so you focused the blazing sunbeams in the enwaged 
tiger's glaring orb with your intwepid eye-glass and cooked his beastly brains ? 

DeP. Y-a-a-s, by Jove, and ate them afterwards. Ra-a-ther gamey, hut wildly 
animating luncheon, you know. Egad, it made me feel so dooced tigerish, that my 
nails grew four inches in as many hours. 

Ape. What extwaordinary aristowatic nerve, and stomach. (Asiclf.) I shall 
pwoceed to experiment on a tomcat forthwith. 

Boodlebang. You're sure it w.urt a wild buffalo calf, my lud ? 

Mrs. B. What a vulgar idea. Don't you suppose a real lord knows a calf when 
he sees one ? 

Bood. The lord knows. Possibly, if he has read "As in a Looking Glass." 

Mrs. B. (Aside.) Boodlebang, you're an untutored savage. 

Bood. (Aside.) And, my darling toady, you're a bigger fool than ever he is. 
(Enter Ruth — Bows distantly to Nighthawk.) 

Fair. (To Nighthatvk.) Who is that pensive-eyed goddess? She looks and 
moves as I should imagine Queen Esther might have done. 

Night. So, so! The biier bitten at the first facing. That, my boy, is the chief 
encumbrance to Delmont's millions. 

Fair. Introduce me. 

Night. That won't do. It would be sending you to hopeless protest. Get Mrs. 
Boodlebang to play the fat propitious angel and thj-ow open the doors of paradise 
to you. 

Miss A. ( To Lord DeP. ) You heroic creature, you ! After that tiger episode I 
am positively afraid of you. 

DeP. I nevah eat ladies, you know. 

Ape. (A.side.) He is not fond of sweetmeats — I must taboo toffy hereafter. 

DeP. But, by Jove, I'm awfully dangerous to the softer sex, you know. 

Ruth. And the softer, the more dangerous, I imagine. 

DeP. Y-a-a-s. For example: when I was special envoy at Algiers, I got into the 
seraglio by means of a goldeu kej'. They were a /tarevH-scarum lot there. 

Ape. Capital, by Jove! 

Boodle. Ring the bell. 

Mrs. B. ( Aside. ) I'd like to wring your nose ! 

DeP. And all the 1117 sultanas fell dead in love with me. 

Miss Fawn. As they naturally would. 

DeP. Y-a-a-s; but unfortunately for the dear, susceptible houris, I could not 
reciprocate. The delicate status of our diplomatic relations forbade it, you know; 
and it broke all their tender hearts. 

Miss F. Did they die i 

DeP. Y-a-a-s, every one of them. 

Ape. What, all ? 

DeP. All ! Pon honah, all ! 

Miss F. Poor deai's. 

Miss Angle. How romantic. 

Fair. I pity the poor sultau most. 

Boodle. Not because he got rid of so many wives i The lucky dog. 



Fair. Oh, no! But funiishing crape for such a wholesale funeral must have 
broke liim, too. 

Boodle. Cork up your sympathy, Fairlook. There's just one family expense 
that ofteu brings joy on earth, if not in h'aven. 

DeP. (Asidi'.) That charmino- female native with the dreamy eyes seems to 
stand in awe of me. 1 must rewanl her modest diffidence, and at the same time 
boolc her. {Aloxid, to Uuffi.) My deah Miss— Aw— Miss— Miss— Weally, I beg par- 
don, but I seem to have forgotten your name, you know. 

KuTH. Delmont; if it can be woi-th your lordship's while to remember so insig- 
nificant a thing. 

UeF. Thanks. You may not think it, but, weally, Miss — Miss — Aw! — Miss Den- 
niiij-k, I'm actually delighted to know you, you know. 

Ruth. I did not know that it was iu any way essential for a lord to know much 
of anything, yr<u know. 

Fair. {Aside.) She's brisjht as well as beautiful. I'm thawing fast. 

Boodle. It isn't, you know — They can hire it, and that's easier, don't-yer-know. 

Fair. That's a valuable hint for you, Apebuli ; you'd better get some. 

Ape. But, my deah fellah, we can't procure the genuine article in this blarsted 
country, 3-0U kjiow. 

Fair. Oii, yes, plentj^ of it. 

Ape. And where, pray. 

Fair. At the asylum for hopeless imbeciles, mj^ dear fellow, don't you know. 

DeP. My deah Miss — Miss — Aw!— Demlot; before I came to America I had an 
icleah — 

Ruth. Did you bring it with you ? 

DeP. {Aside.) How refreshingly unsophisticated she is, to be sure. {Alrrnd.) 
Why, certainly. I had an idea, you know, that the native ladies in New Yoi'k 
painted then- faces, wore red horse clotlis, and stuck feathers in their hair. 

Ruth. Borne of them do paint, I have heard. 

Miss Angle. What a horrid slander. 

Ruth. And as to our wearing the feathers, it would not seem more odd, would 
it, than .is the fact that most of the English geese we see here have none ? 

DeP. Weally, now, don't they ? By Jove, that's very odd, you know. Do they 
pluck them before they are sent over. 

Ruth. Not always. 

Fair. But some of them are iDlucked mighty clean after they get here; eh, 
Nighthawk ? 

DeP. I am also highly gratified to note a twemendous effort in your best society 
to pattern after our noble selves. Take Apebuli, for instance. Though sometimes k 
little off in accent, attitude and manners, and crude in dress, as a whole, he would 
not disgrace either my tailor or my ancestral halls. 

Ape. O, my Lord, you flattei- me. {Aside.) This is inexpwessibly gwatifying 
and encourai;ing. I'll order another pair of twowsei's to-morrow. 

Ruth. You outdo his lordship then, Mr. Apebuli, for imitation is the sincerest 
flattery, you know. 

DeP. Y-a-a-s. He, and the other fellahs like him, are true refomahs and deserve 
encouragement. 

Ruth. I am happy to be able to assure your lordship that all sensible people 
appreciate them at their full value. 

DeP. That's wight. But, aw! though you are such a chawming magupt, my 
deah Miss— Mii-s — Aw!— Delsot, I shall have to tear myself away and mmgie with 
the common herd that impatiently longs for me. But may I beg permission to call 
on you ? 

Ruth. Oh! 1113^ lord, you overwhelm me, and are by far too gracious. We 
could scarcely hope, and never dare to look, for so much condescension from nobility. 

DeP. {A.siiJe.) Egad! she's winged. (Aloud.) Don't mention it. A great 
pleasah, I assure you. So, till then {tlirmving her a hi.ss), adieu. 

{Exit DeF. J'ollowed by Miss Fawn.) 

Ape. Aw! Miss Delmont, allow me to congratulate you. 

Ruth. And why, sir, pi'ay V 

Ape. For having made such a palpable impression on his lordship. 

Ruth. Did I. indeed? I was not aware of it. {LouJdiuj at her hands.) I do 
not discover any dough on my fingers. How very, very soft he is, to be ture. I 
know of but one thing softer. 

Ape. Your heart. Miss Delmont ? 

Ruth. No! The heads of his American imitators, Mr. Apebuli. 

Ape. I shall certainly report your unkind remarks to his lordshij), Miss 
Delmont. 



Ruth. Thank you. I could not have suggested a aiore fitting messenger for the 
purpose. 

(Exit Apebull.) 

Fair. ( To Mrs. Boodlebang.) Won't you favor me with an introduction to Miss 
Delniont ? 

Mrs. B. What? It's the first time, in all the years I've known you, you ever 
asked nie for such a thing. I've possitively had to drag you into a nodding acquaint- 
ance with any petticoat, and now you actually throw yourself at one. What's come 
over you i 

Fair. You see, my dear Madam, I'm improving under your gentle and winning 
influence. 

Mrs. B. Oh, get out; you frozen stick of taffiv ! You're in for it, at last, and I'm 
more than willing to shove you in deeper. Ho, come along. 

{Enter Apebull.) 

Ape. His Lordship wants you, Boodlebang. 

Boodle. I hope he don't want to borrow anything. 

Mrs. B. You ought to feel yourself honored if he does. 

Boodle. I'm cussedly afraid it would be dishonored if he did. 

(Jixit Apebull and Boodlebang.) 

Mrs. B. Miss Delmont I want to introduce you to the North Pole; o herwise 
known as Mr. John Faij-look, and if he treats yon as cooly as he does my other lady 
friends you'd best send for your seal-skin, or your teeth will be chattering inside of 
five minutes. Now, I must go and look after his Lordship. So, adoo. 

(Exit Mrs. I300DLEBANG.) 

Fair. An icy slander, I assure you, Miss Delmont. I am not in the least i rigid. 
I simply discriminate. 

Ruth. Am I to regard that as a special compliment, Mr. Fairlook ? If so, I fear 
I shall receive you so cooly, in turn, that you will have to send for your overcoat. 
I detest compliments, and give vou warning that I shall not like you if you pay 
them. 

Fair. Truly, a most fair warning; but, may I ask you, will you like me if I do 
not pay them ? 

Ruth. I can't promise quite so much as that; but I will try very hard not to 
dislike you. 

Fair. Even on that small encouragement, I am prepared to solemnly assure you 
that I never paid one in the whole course of my life, unless it was to make faces at 
my nurse. 

Ruth. How could that be a compliment ? 

Fair. She was so magnificently homely, you see. 

Ruth. I may catch you making faces at me, sir. 

Fair. You cannot beguile me into a fatal compliment even with such a tempting 
opening. I want to make neither faces nor compliments, but friends. I have the 
honor of a slight acquaintance with j'our father, and I pay no idle compliment in 
assuring you that I respect and esteem him most highly. 

Ruth. O, you may compliment him all you please, for I like that; and, if you 
really like him, I fear I shall be indiscreet enough to like you. 

Fair. A most acceptable proof that " like begets like." 

Ruth. Now, had you substituted charming for acceptable, you would have 
been like to stultify yourself. 

Fair. Another proof that the truth should not be spoken at all times. But, 
Miss Delmont, you won't mistake it for a compliment if I express my keen enjoy- 
ment of the manner in which you jjlucked that English goose ? 

Ruth. Did you, indeed ? 

Fair. How could I do otherwise, for am I not an American of Americans, Miss 
Delmont ? 

Ruth. And I am proud of you for being one, Mr. Fairlook. 

Fair. Truly, so then am I; though I don't remember to have ever been particu- 
larly proud of myself before. 

Ruth. Beware, Mr. Fairlook! 

Fair. What for i Of being an American ? I thought only your enemies should 
beware of that. 

Ruth. I am the friend of every true American. 

Fair. Then, most truly, we are friends ; for you have said it. 
(Enter Boodlebang.) 

Boodle. Miss Ruth, you know you promised me the next dance, and I'm not 
going to be cheated out of the loveliest lass in the whole lot. 

Ruth. \Vith pleasure, if Mr. Fairlook will kindly excuse me. 



Fair. Certainly; though I can't sincerely adrl, with pleasure. (Aside.) The 
old niarplor. l\\ like to rut a pigeon-wing on his tombstone. 

Ruth. ( Aside.) I really think I should like to liave him for a friend. ( Music is 
heard.) Oh, what a delicious hop waltz! Come, Mr. Boodlebang. 

Boodle. The deuce it is! I thought it was a Virginia Reel. I'm no flea, you 
see. I can't hop; so we'll have to postpone hostilities. 

Ruth. I'm so sorry. It's a real disappointment, you know. 

Boodle. (Imitating Apelndl.) Capital, bj' Jove! 

Night. (To Faii lo'-k.) Well, what's the verdict ? Do you go in for the million ? 

Fair. I never once thought of it. 

Night. That settles it! You'll marry her; but you must go about it honorably. 

Fair. Honorably ! That word must have a strange flavor in your mouth. 

Night. I use it practically, not sentimentally. 

Fair. How so ? 

Night. You must formally ask her father for her hand. 

Fair. But will he not I'efuse me ? Am I not a Christian ? 

Night. Turn Jew, then. 

Fair. But, if he still refuses ? 

Night. Then marry her in spite of him. You will have fully convinced her of 
your honor and sincerity and thus win her confidence. That gained, the rest will 
follow. Without it you will fail. I know her. 

Fair. Y"ou are so wise that 1 shall call you Owl, instead of Nighthawk, here- 
after. Well, if I ever find the time, I may think of it. 

Night. (As'de.) Yes, and you'll do it, too; and carry the bag for me, in spite 
of all your insolence. 

(Enter Apebull.) 

Ape. (Wildly.) I had her all to myself in the conservatory, and was gretting on 
swimmingly; when, just as I was about to pop, that blawsted, bwazen Ishmaelite 
came in and cut me clean out, as quick as he would snip off a sample of shoddy wath 
his vulgah shears. Curse him and all his thieving tribe! 

Miss Angle. Why, what can be the matter, my dear Mr. Apebull ? Who are 
you talking about ? 

{ Enter Mrs. Boodlebang, Miss Fawn and Lord DeP.) 

Apebull. A dastardly, devilish, dirtj^, depwaved, def wading Pharisee! 

DeP. What's the wumpus ? 

Ape. They're all alike and ought to he dwiven out of the country, like hogs, at 
the bayonet's point ; their stealings confiscated, and bonfires made of their houses, to 
celebrate the joyful occasion. 

Miss A. That would be too good treatment for some of them, I know. 

Miss F. So it would — the impudent graduates from slums and slop shops. 

Boodle. By thundei", this is my house, and I want to know wh t all this means! 

Ape. Means! It means that I'd like to hang every — 

Fair. (Seizing Apebull.) Stop, you idiotic blackguard! Not another word or, 
I swear, I'll strangle you ! 

Ruth. Hold, Mr. Fairlook! This is my affair. (Facing Ap hull, Mia.? A. and 
Miss F.) And who ai-e you, that you should dare to thus infamously and falsely 
defame and revile a great nation '{ Kings, conquerois, heroes, prophets and poets; 
ages before your savage ancestors made their lairs in northern swamps and thick- 
ets; shivered, half naked, in the raw skins of other beasts; fed on offal, and robbed 
and murdered in the name of mist-boru demons; slaughter, their pastime, and civ- 
ilization, their abhorrence. I am a Jewess! I glory in it! And I will defend my 
people ! 

[Curtain.] 



10 



ACT III. 



Scene, same as in Act I. 

{Enter Nanny, with a carver in her hand.) 
Nan. Miss. Ruth 's got 'em, and she 's a goner. Ever since I seed the noble 
villian in that ere sweet meller dranier jump, like a heroic bull-frog, from the 
whirligig bridge into a big cistern and rescue the forlorn maiden from her untimely 
«nd, I've had all the sympterms, and {striking her heart), I've got 'em down pat. I 
might as well begin postin' up on the nussin' biz ; it's comin', sure. {Sings the 
following.) 

[Song.] 
O, luve ! luve ! luve ! you're a very queer thing. 

For gittin' us soft-hearted gals on the string ; 
The old and the young ; though the old 'uns is wust, 
Because the most anxious to take you on trust. 

All ages and colors ; all sizes and kind ; 

You knock 'em all out, even though you be blind ; 
And even the red-headed gal and white boss, 

Must agree with the blackest that you are the boss. 

Like the skeeter, you've wings, and don't wear any clothes; 

Like him, into everyone your arrer goes. 
Like his, too, .your jabs, how they itches and smarts ; 
He but pizens the skin, while you pizens our hearts. 
(E 'iter RvTH.) 
O, luve ! luve ! luve ! from what little I've seen, 
I'd as soon smoke a pipe in a fort's magazine. 
As ti"ust you ; for after the ring there's a show-up. 
Then off comes your blinders, and lor' what a blow-up. 
Ruth. You're in high spirits, Nanny. I almost envy vou. 

Nan. (.4.sic/e.) Another sympterni ! {Aloud) Envy the likes of me, Miss. 
Ruth ? Though I admits I is to be envied for having such a splendiferous missus as 
you is. 
Ruth. You are a good girl, Nanny, and I should be very helpless without you. 
Nan. I'm sure I tries to be. Miss Ruth, and my heart is right under the sole of 
your little slipper this very minnit. {A.side.) When she talks to me hke that, it 
makes me feel just like the noble villian was ticklin' me all over. {Aloud.) But 
what's the matter with you. Miss Ruth ? You .seems resle.^s like, and yoti're off 
your feed. I don't hear you sing no more, and the way you sighs sometimes is most 
enough to blow the gas out. You aint gone and caught the dyspepser, has you ? 

Ruth. Nothing quite so bad as that, I hope, but I do feel unaccountably de- 
pressed and melancholy ; so much so at times, I am strangely impressed with the 
idea that something dreadful is about to happen. 

Nan. {Aside.^ That settles it. {Aloud.) Cheer up! It mav only be a earth- 
quake. I would just like to see anything happen to you, Miss Ruth, I would, when 
I was in the same ward. Your nerves is on a strike: that's what's the matter. 
You need bracin' up. Try gin. 

Ruth. "What a remedy to recommend to a lady. 

Nan. That'.-! what Dad always took, and the way it used to raise his speei'its 
was a holy teiTor to the whole block. What's that i 
Ruth. Goodness ! "W^hat startled you so ? 
Nan. Bless my sinful soul ; tlie sass is bilin' over ! 

(jEr/f. Nanny, r^o}ning.) 
Ruth. A condition which she is in half the time : but. after all, she is a rough 
diamond, without a flaw, and true as steel. Heigh, ho I I wonder what has be- 
come of Mr. Fairlook. It's two whole days since he called. How promi)tly he 
championed my cause, and how nobly indignant he looked. Ti-ue, any gentleman 
would have done the same, but very few could have done it so well. 

{Enter Delmont.) 
Del. Ruth, I am just going to step down and look at that saddle horse you fan- 
cied so much. If he is safe and sound, and you will promise to be a very good gii-1, 
I may buy him for j-ou. 



11 

Ruth. Deai- father, how f^ood you are to me, and yet, I should enjoy your lov^- 
in^ generosity far better, did you but think oftener of your own comfort and 
pleasure. 

Del. Mj' child, I have all the comforts I deserve and desire, and find ample 
plea.sure in my business. 

Ruth. But, father, while you are almost prodigal with me. yet you do deny 
yourself very many things you really need and ought to have. It makes me feel 
both guilty and imhappy. 

Del. That's silly, eliild. The money spent on j'ou by right belongs to you. It 
was your dear mother's portion, and you inheiit it. 

Ruth. But, Father, people say that you are enorniouslj' wealthy. 

Del. a great mistake, nij^ child ; all that I have I merely hold in trust. 

Ruth. May I ask for whom ? 

Del. One who will see me amply rewarded, iji his good time, my child. 

Ruth. But why not use some of my money ? Take every dollar of it, and I 
will add the interest of a kiss to every dollar. 

Del. No, no, you little spendthrift. But if I really need it, I promise to call 
on you. 

(Enter Nanny, ivitli a skimmer in h^r hand.) 

Nan. Miss Ruth, there's somethin' with a piece of glass with a .string tied to it 
stuck in its eye, and suckin' a stick wants to see you. There's its ticket. {Hands 
her a ci.rd.) 

Ruth. Lord De Puttipayte ! Show him in. {Exit Nanny.) 

Del. And who is lord De Puttipayte ? 

Ruth. Only a titled fool, as you will soon discover. I met him at Mrs. Boodle- 
bangs, and he bus called a number of times since. 

Del. Ah ! Fools, child, are sometimes the most dangerous. 

Ruth. Nonsense, father. 

{Enter Lord De Puttipayte and Nanny. 

Nan. {Aside.) Lor', I hope he aint the one ! {Eadt Nanny.) 

DeP. Awfull.y glad to see you, I assure you. Miss— Miss— Aw, Miss Delblot. 

Ruth. My father, lord De Puttipayte. 

DeP. Aw! How are you, old chappv ? 

Del. Overwhelmed by this unexpected honor, I assure you. 

DeP. Don't mention it. No, thanks. They bore me. 

Del. I must reluctantly leave the pleasure of entertaining 3'our lordship to my 
daughtei'. 1 have important matters to attend to. 

DeP. That's wight, mj' good fellow ; look after the shop. See yon later. 

Del. (Aside.) Even a title with such a thing as that attached to it, would dis- 
gust a less sensible giil than Ruth. He is perfectly haimiless. (Exit Delmont.) 

Ruth. Won't 3'ou sit down, my loi d ? 

DeP. (Aside.) This is deucedly awkward ! What a dweadful oversight! I've 
got on my walking twowsers. (Aloud.) Thanks. (Sits down with great oifficulfi/.) 
(Aside.) How ai'istwocratically cool she is. By jove, she looks like a marble 
duchess, and could outfreeze the haughtiest of them, too, if she'd a mind to. And 
the colder she seems, the hotter I grow. Certain acceptance, lovely creature, rich 
father, social sensation, romantic letui'n, ornament to ancestral halls. I flatter 
mj^self that I am a man of action, and, demme, if I don't go it ! (.Aloud.) Aw I 
Miss — Miss— Aw I Delrot ; have you ever visited the mother country i 

Ruth. No, my lord ; but I shuuld veiy much like to. 

DeP. Would you, wealh^ ? Then, as the song says : " Con e fly with me, o'er 
the moonlit sea." 

Ruth. But how can you fly ? You have no feathers, you know. 

DeP. But I have golden wings, my dear M:ss — .A.w! — Miss Beli.nont, and I would 
gather you under them, as the devoted lien does lier last spring chicken, you know. 

Ruth. I fear that I am too much of a chicken to be able to follow you in such 
poetic flights. Lord DePuttipayte. 

DeP. (Aside.) How cleverly she is leading me on. (Aloud.) My dear Miss — 
Aw! — Miss Delfrock, it may seem almost incwedilile, but do you know that i started 
ouf. to book you, and, by jove, you've booke I me, instead, 

Ruth. Booked you, my lord -; Sui-ely you would not accuse me of putting you 
in a calf-skin binding 'i 

DeP. No! not that kind of booking; but the kind of booking that means 
booking, you know. 

Ruth. But I don't know. 

DeP. Mj' dear Miss Aw!— Miss— Delfont, there are times in every great and 
distinguished man's career, when he feels irresistibly impelled to nuike hewoic self- 
sacwiflces. That hour has come, and the man is here. 



12 

Rnxn. M.y lord, pardon my native stupidity, but I am utterly at a loss to know 
what you are talking about. 

DeP. Now, my dear Miss— Aw ! Miss Delfront, pi-ay don't get excited. 

Ruth. That I am mystified, I must admit, but I never felt more tranquil, I 
assure 3'ou. 

DeP. (Aside.) "Well, by jove, I have. (Alowl.) That's wight, for the time 
has come when you will need all your self-possession to Iceep you from being delir- 
iously dwowned in an unexpected flood of happiness and ti-iumph. 

Ruth. And not a life-preserver in sight ! What shall I do i 

DeP. Hear me, Miss, Aw ! Miss— Denlot. I adore, I worship, I idolize ; in fact, 
I love you dear Boaz— No ! I mean Ruch. I would make a weal lady of you, and 
{Kneeling before her) here I lay my heart and title at your wavishing 'little 
toot^^y-wootsies. 

Ruth. What does all this trifling mean ? Some one is coming ! For heaven's 
sake get up, my lord ! 

(Enter Fairi^ook, followed by Nanny, carry mgr a xnllow, as Ruth droijs her 
handkerchief fur Lord DeP. to pick iqj.) 

Nanny. (Aside.) This swipes the tabloo in the noble villian, and all thi-ee's got 
'e'li- (Exit Nanny, kugginq the pillow.) 

DeP. (Aside.) The devil ! > jj n i' 

Fair. (Picking up the handkerchief.) Allow me, Miss Delmont. 

DeP. (Getting up with djficulty.) And while the wetch was in that position, I 
fired. 

Ruth. And missed, my lord. Next time you should aim higher. 

DeP. Y-a-a-s. That's good advice, and I'll tvvy and remember it. 

Ruth. Thank you, my lord. 

DeP. How are you, Mr. Fairday ? 

Fair. Sir ! My name is not Fairday, and you have the advantage of me. 

Ruth. (Aside.) And that piece of rudeness is meant for me, sir. 

DeP. Weally, have I ? Then Pll t)-y and keep it, ^.4.side) for I feel as though 
I'd lost everything else. (Aloud.) But I had forgotten. I promised to give Aue- 
buU a lesson in cane carrying, and attitude on the promenade. So, weally, I shall 
have to take my leave. Good day, Miss — Aw ! Miss Demplot. 

PlUth. Adieu, my lord. 

DeP. (Aside.) A lord tossed overboard like a mouldy biscuit ! It's incwedible. 
What would they say at the Lotus? If it gets out I'm ruined ! I'll take the fir»t 
steamer for England. (Exit Lord DePuttipayte.) 

Fair. (Aside.) He can't cover his tracks with a halting lie like that. He was 
proposing to her. A lord is a dangerous rival with a lady, at any time. If mur- 
derously inclined jealousy be a sign of it, speculative pin-poses barred, for a pro- 
fessional woman hater, I'm badly scotched. Brazencraft, you stand in great dan- 
ger of losing the trick. You must lead trumps. 

Ruth. You are so silent, and frown so fiercely, Mr. Fairlook, you make me fear 
I have in some way unconsciously offended you. 

Fair. Yes! — That is, no ! Not at all. I was merely trying to frame an accept- 
able excuse for my ill-mannered, and, I fear, most unwelcome intrusion. That 
stupid servant led me into it. 

PtUTH. Is that all ? Then I freely pardon you. There was no harm done, I as- 
sure you. 

Fair. (Aside.) No harm done ? That's a broid hint she has accepted him. 
(Al ud.) At least you shall not accuse me of tardiness in offeriug my cougratu- 
laiions. 

Ruth. Congratulations ! For what, pray ? 

Fair. For what I unhappily saw. 

Ruth. (Aside.) Now, were it not for his established reputation, I might flatter 
myself he was just -a ti-ifle jealous. 

Fair. ^Aside.) She hesitates. I've lost the game ! 

PtUTH. Is the spectacle of an idiot at a lady's feet so rare a one, Mr. Fairlook 
that I am to be specially congratulated b.y a, man of sense Ihei'eupon ? 

Fair. Not generally ; but if to it is added the attractions of a title, a great deal 
depends on what he was saying and doing there. 

Ruth. I should scarcelj'^ have expecte(l such an ungenerous and unkind innuendo 
from you, Mr. Fairlook. What Lord DePuttipayte was doing and saying is his 
secret, and you should respect it, as I do, if only from ivspect tor me. 

PVlR. Forgive me. Miss Delmont, foi-, indeed, I do respect you far too highly to 
displease you, or attempt to force myself upon your confidence. But I, to, have a 
secret, which this incident forces from me. 

Ruth. (Aside.) How strangely my heart beats ! What can he mean ? 



13 

Fair. I cnnie to see j'our father. 

Ruth. Well, I'm sure that's no very weighty secret, or compliment, either. 

Fair. Yes ; the sijicerest of compliments to you, an<\ even more. I came to 
ask him for your ban I ; that is if j-oiir heart went with it. I did not intend that 
you should know this, but after what has passed, if your hand is pledged to an- 
other, may I not, with honor, beseech you not to uselessly subject me to the hu- 
miliation of a refusal ? 

Ruth. {Aside.) He loves me, and is worthy of my love. (Aloud.) Your can- 
dor compels me to sacrifice modest scruples to the truth. My hand, as yet, is free. 

Fair And your heart ? 

Ruth. It is hai-dly generous to press me quite so closely. 

Fair. If I appear unreasonable, it is because all my liofjes of happiness hang on 
your answer. You have heard that I have been as ice to all your sex, and it was 
true. 

Ruth. lAsid<'..) And I am most truly glad to hear it. 

Fair. I never knew I had a heart until I learned so from your eyes. It lay 
cold : dead ; irresponsive to every wile and fascination, until the witchery of your 
beauty called it into glorious lift^, and melted it as melts an April frost. Dear 
Ruth, I love you ; and who can measure or define the all-o'ermastering strength 
and sincerity of a first and only love, that has the power to thus transform me ? 

Ruth. (Aside) Measured by what it has awakened here, it seems but weak 
and transient. 

Fair. You are silent. 

Ruth. (Aside.) Yes; eloquently silent, from commmgled joy and doubt. 

Fair. Is it from sympathy and sweet compliance; or from cold indifference? 
Answer me, Ruth, and frankly. I implore you, answer me ! 

Ruth. O. sir, I scarcely know how to answer you, and yet, perhaps, I am not 
entirely indifferent to your avowal. 

Fair. Must 1 base all my fond hopes of gaining your affections on such a 
dubious concession as that ? 

Ruth. No ! Why should love, pui'ity and truth in woman, more than man, 
conceal themselves behind coquettish arts ; counterfeit fashionable shamelacedness, 
and only seem to hesitate to match their fellows ? I love you, John, and have done 
so from the first. 

Fair. My darling ! My infinitely generous darling ! A whole life's most faith- 
ful devotion shall I'eward your pi'iceless gift and noble candoj*. 

Ruth. Heaven grant it, John ! Natures like mine give all, and they demand as 
much. Should you deceive me, 1 could not forgive it. Should you prove false, it 
would surely kill me. 

Fair Then shall you be immortal, as are the other angels. 

Ruth. You, and you only, have the power to make my love as immortal as 
theirs. But, alas, we are as blind as love, and as uureckouiug as children. What 
will my father say ? 

Fair. Leave that to me. 

Ruth. But he will never consent to my marrying a Christian. 

Fair. I will convince him that I am one in faith, as I am one in heart and spirit 
with you, sweet saint. 

R,uth. When will you see him, love ? 

Fair. Let me plunge in at once and cross this Hellespont. 

Ruth. But if you fail, I fear that I shall sink with you. 

Fair. Fear not ; I am no weak Leander ; and with such a Hero waiting for me, 
I cannot fail. 

Ruth. Hark ! I hear my father's voice. What shall we do ? 

Fair. Leave me to meet him. _ Where cowards, through faltering fail, courage 
compels success. 

Ruth. Heaven grant it ! 

Fair. Amen ! (Exit Ruth.) 

!She is mine ! mine ! And false, mercenary and all-unworthy of her as I am, it 
makes me madly happy. 

(Enter Delmont.) 

Del. (Stopping at the door.) There's half a dollar missing, and although I've 
wasted five dollars' worth of time on it, I can't account for it. Nanny ! Nanny, 
I say ! 

Nan. {Outside.) Yes, sir. 

Del. Have you seen anything of a stray fifty cent piece ? 

Nan. Lor', sir, no ! I don't believe I'd even know one if I seed it. 

Del. I'll wager that you would if you could have it for the finding. (Enters 
room and sees Fa irlook.) Mr. Fairlook, I believe? 

Fair. Yes, Mr. Delmont, I was waiting to see you. 



14 

Del. I hope I havo not detained you, sir. 

Fair. Not at all. My thoughts have been pleasant company during the brief 
time I have waited. 

Del. Few men can say as much. AVhat is the nature of your business, may I ask ? 

Fair. Both delicate and important, sir ; and one that'should be dealt with in a 
manly and straightforward manner. Frankly, then, sir, I most earnestly and re- 
spectfully ask your permission to address your daughter. 

Del. For what pui-pose ? 

Fair. That of mari-iage. 

Del. Marriage ? You marry my daughter ? 

Fair. If I have your permission and lier favor, sir. 

Del. Does my daughter know aught of this, sir ? 

Fair. Upon my honor, nothing. 

Del. You are sure of that ? 

Fair. I liave said it, sir. 

Del. (.4s('de.) But I don't believe it. (Aloud.) I would not seem abrupt, Mr. 
Fairlook, but your example compels me to say frankly that what you ask it is im- 
possible to grant. 

Fair. But, Mr. Delmont, I am a man of good standing and habits, and, as these 
papers will satisfy you, able to support a wife in something more than comfort. 
{Aside.) And I will trust them to hoodwink even your sharp eyes. {Tenders j^a- 
peis to Di'bnont.) 

Del. I do not care to see them, sir. Strange as it may appear to you, in this 
instance, moziey is but a secondary consideration with me. 

Fair. I respect the sentiment. But, surely, Mr. Delmont, you know nothing 
against me ? 

Del. I know nothing in your favor, sir, and in an affair of this kind, that is verv 
much against you. Excuse me for dealing with you in a manly and straightfoi"- 
ward manner, for I am a father, and the circumstances demand it. I know that 
you are a fashionable idler. My daughter's hapi^iness is very dear to me, and I 
cannot intrust it to one of that cla.ss. 

Fair. But, pray consider, Mr. Delmont, that I have bad no incentive to be 
otherwise. 

Del. Is there, then, no good to be done in this world, Mr. Fairlook ? 

Fair. Assuredly ; and a great deal. Grfve me your daughter and she shall teach 
me how to do it. 

Del. The risk is far too great to justify the experiment. I fear, sir, the lesson 
would come altogether too late in 3'our life to be of any service. Be-sides, you seem 
to forget, sir, that I am a Jew. You are not of my faith, and that aloiie would 
constitute an insurmountable objection. 

Fair. As a proof of my sincerity, I am prepared to renounce Christianity this 
very day, and embi'ace your religion. I swear it ! 

Del. What ! And thus make sudden apostacy pander to hot-footed desire ? 

Fair. From an j^ other man, sir, except liuth Del n tout's Father, 1 would resent 
such a charge as that as a deadly insult. But I can pardon even that in you. As 
you are so evidently pre-determined to misunderstand me, it would be utterly use- 
less to prolong this painful interview. 

Del. Utterly. 

Fair. Good day, Mr. Delmont. The time will come when you will learn to 
know me bettei". 

Del. {Aside.) 1 hardly think it. {Aloud.) Stay. sir. {Rings the bell.) 
(E'fifer Nanny.) 

Send my daughtei' to me at once. 

Nan. (Aside) The noble villian's run agin the stonj'-hearted parient, and the 
whirligig biidge will be painted red with go-ar. [L'x t Nanny.) 

Fair. But, Mr. Delmont, it is entirely unnecessary that Miss Ruth should l)e 
summoned. 

Del. 1 have no family secrets from my daughter, sir. 

Fair. (Aside.) I hope she'll look sharp for danger signals. 

(Kilter RvTU.) 

Ruth. (Aside.) My heart prophesied but too truly. Alas, he has failed! 
(Aloud.) Did you wish to see rue, father ? 

Del. Yes, my child. Are j'ou acquainted with this gentleman ? 

Ruth. Mr. Fairlook ? I have met him quite frtquently. 

Del. Then you must know him well. 

Ruth. Yes," father— that is, quite well. 

Del. He has done us the honor of asking your hand in marriage, and I have 
declined it. Absolutely, irrevocably declined it. Do you undeistand me, my child? 

Ruth. Yes, father. 

Del. Now you may go, sir. 

[CniTAIN.] 



]o 



ACT IV. 



Scene 1.— A Street. 

{Enter Nigiithawk from right and Fairlook from left.) 

Night. Halloo, Fairlook ! What news ? How goes the foray into rich Juilea ? 

Fair. She loves me. 

Night. You are a lucky dog. 

Fair. I feel more like a mangy cur, and could curse myself that she does love 
me. 

Night. Well, here is a go! What an unreasonable, spoilt child it is, to be sure. 
Squalling and bumping its own head, and all because it has got just what it cried 
for. 

Fair. Cold and callous as I am. I've got more than I bargained for — a lesson in 
unselti-h love and confiding purity that has well-nigh conquered me. 

Night. '"Tis said, that even a lion will flee, from a maid in the strength of her 
purity ; " but I did not think you that kind of a V)east. 

Fair. What does the lion care what the jackal thinks ? Why did you tempt me 
into this infernal scheme ? 

Night. For good and substantial reasons already stated. But I miscalculated 
with vvhom I had to deal. The girl's a witch. 

Fair. Slie is an angel, and, in all noble attributes, as far above us as is the Sev- 
enth Heaven above the lowest depths of Hell. 

Night. ( Aside.) 1 must give this hooked shark line or he'll swamp everything. 
(Aloiid.) Give her up, then. 

Fair. I've tried a thousand times harder to do so than I ever did to commit a 
crime, and failed. 

Night. Why so? 

Fair. Because I love her so I cannot do it. 

Night. Then marry her. 

Fair. Her fatht-r rejected me with galling disdain and bitter insults, and even 
called her in t(j witness it. 

Night. Which goes to prove the wisdom of my first advice. He has stripped 
himself of all right to consideration. Besides, Fairlook, and mark well what I say, 
such a gii'l as that loves but once. If you really love her, you cannot abandon her! 
It would kill her. You have no choice. You must marry her. 

Fair. I never looked at it in that light. 

Night. It don't require a second look to jorove that I am right. Besides, I am 
reliably advised that Miss Delraont inherits quite a fortune from her motbei-, which 
makes her largely independent of her father. 

Fair. So, the sneaking jackal would have me play the lion and marry her, that 
I may rob her to pay him. 

Night. The nobler beast would be ashamed to make such a I'eturn as that for 
good advice. [ never thought of it. I'm entirely willing to trust the future and 
your word for my recompense. {A.'^ide.} And I'll make you pay cent, percent, 
usury for every cut you've given me. 

Fair. That sounds fair enough, and if I've hastily done you injustice, I regret 
it. 

Night. Say no more about it; it is forgotten already. I'm prepared to make 
all allowances for the unreasonableness of love, and especially in such a victim. 
But, seriouslj', Fairlook, I'm getting dead sick of this sort of life. I (lon't pretend 
to put it on high moral grounds. Its too devilish danger.ms and precarious. So, to 
the rest of my good advice, I'll add this best piece of all: man-y the girl;- make her 
a good husband; leforrn, and I'll follow suit. 

Fair. Now I begin to believe that Ruth is an angelic witch. Do you really 
mean it ? 

Night. Upon my life, I do. 

Fair Then, Brace Nighthavvk, for the first time in my life I respect you. 
Shake! It's a bargain 

Night. {Aside) And one that will be broken on both sides. {Aloud.) Well, 
then, let's go and pay a brimming libation to the fair goddess of good resolutions. 

Fair. Aye! And drown what we have been ten thousand fatlioms deej). 

{Exit alt.) 



k; 

ISpene 2. — A Hec'ia'ded Nook tn Central Park. 

(Enter Ruth Delmont.) 

Ruth. "Why is it that oiiv wavwanl hearts ever most desii-e the things denied 
them, and crave most foi" most forbidden fruits i^ How rapturously delicious are 
these stolen interviews. My heai't would starve without them. VVliy should my 
father, for the first time, so play the hateful tyrant with me, and in the very thing, 
too, where my haitpiness is most concerned ? Why should he so cruelly interfere in 
an affair that is so entirely mine ? No one asks him to marry John, I'm sure. Then 
why should he object to him, and when he oHei-s to become a convert to our faith, 
too ? I'm sure that's very complimentai'y to me; and he is fit to be a prince, or a 
high priest in Israel. Why don't he come ? What keeps him ? It seems as though 
I had already waited an age for him. 

{Enter Fairlook. He steals up beliind Rulh and kisses her.) 

Ruth. Sir! Why, John! How you frightened me. You ought to be ashamed 
of yourself. I never knew you were a thief, before. 

Fair. Because I stole a kiss ? Your loveliness is far the guiltier accomplice for 
having tempted me beyond endurance. But, in proof of my penitence, 1 will 
leturu it. 

Ruth. You shall not thus cheaply bribe your judge until you clear yourself of a 
more seri- us crime. You are beginning early, sir, to play the tardy wooer. 

Fair. Sweet judge, I am but a half-a-minute late.. 

Ruth. Fie, then, upon you for a halting laggard. You should have been a full 
half-hour too soon; carving my name in circling hearts upon the trees; competing 
love-lorn sonnets to my eyes, and playing the sighing and impatient Orlando. But 
I'll be generous and forgive you, if you'll but tell me again, and yet again, that you 
love me, and are ha]3py in my love. 

Fair. My R,osebudj I could not half tell you in a whole millenium's length how 
much I love you. 

Ruth. That's very long, and yet but half an answer. 

Fair. Was Adam happy outside of Paradise ? 

Ruth. I'm sure he should have been. He had Eve with him. 

Fair. Y^es, and with hei- all the best of Paradise; but I have no such dear com- 
panion to cheer my lonely and despondent hours with sympathy and love. 

Ruth. Dear John, you have me. Pray is not that enough ? 

Fair.. It would bs more thau enough to make the earth a paradise to me. Ruth, 
do you really love me as much as you say ? 

Ruth. Heaven knows mj^ heart, I do! 

Fair. Are you piepared to give me proof of it ? 

Ruth. Have I not already done .so, dearest i 

Fair. Y^es, and no. 

Ruth. What more could you rightly ask of me ? 

Fair. But one thing. 

Ruth. And what is that ? 

Fair. Y'our fullest confidence. 

Ruth. But, John, you have that, too. 

Fair. Are you sure ? 

Ruth. As sure as that I love you. 

Fair. Then marry me. 

Ruth. Alas. I cannot, without my fathei-'s consent. 

Fair. And that you will never gain until j-ou do. 

Ruth. Oh, have pity and patience, daiiing! Bye-and-bye he may relent. 

Fair. Never, until we boldly force him to it. Beneath the weary shadows of 
that dim and distant bye-and-bye we may grow old and die in waiting. Be reason- 
able, R,uth. We can conceal our mtrriage until a favor.ible opportunity occurs to 
disclose it. Youi- father will then see that further opposition is worse than useless, 
and make the best of it. He loves you too much to do otherwise. 

Ruth. Jf>hn, I would gladly die for you, but this I must refuse you. 

Fair. Then j-ou do not love and trust me as you say. 

Ruth. How can you be so cruel arul unjust f 

Fair. It is you, who are cruel, and I that would be kind. Things cannot go on 
in this way, Ruth. Your father is likely to discover our secret at any moment, and 
then we sliall be hopelessly parted. The time has come when you must choose 
between us. 

Ruth. Alas, I have no choice! 

Fair. Then, in mercy to us both, and most to you, far well, my fii'st and only 
love— farewell, forever ! (Going.) 



1 '7 

Ruth. Oli, Heavenly Fattier, ojuide and sustain me! My heart is breaking. 
Farewell, John! No! No! I cannot sive him up! O, John! My king! My more 
than husband; come back to me! {Fairloak 7rtiirns to har.) Whither thou goest, 
I will go! Thy people shall be my people, and thy God, my God! 

Fair. And, life of my soul, I will be one with you! 



Scene 3— A Street. 

{Enter Alice, crying.) 

Alice. You horrid, cruel, iingentleman, little forty thieves, you! You'r badder 
than the baddest boy in the Sunday-school book. (A v lice outsirie — '"Eats!") 
Maybe the rats will eat you up ; just like they did that wicked old bishop in his big 
stone castle. 

{Elder Delmont.) 

Dfl. What's the matter, my little maiden, all forlorn ? 

Alice. A juvalrine depravity snatched my pennies, that 1 was going to get some 
bread with, and, Oil, dear, .Mamma and me's so hungry! 

Del. Tlie heartless young scoundrel! But, never mind, here's a famous remedy 
for drying up the tears of honest poverty, and I would that more of it was wisely 
used lor that purpose. ( Hcuids her mont y.) 

Alice. O, thank you, sir! Aren't you one of those ansels the good book tells 
about, that hides their wings and goes around wearing men's clothes i 

Del. Far from it, my child. 

Alice. Whj% I know now who you are! You are the Mr. Goodman I helped 
Mamma to pray for. 

Del. What's that? Why, bless my soul, it's widow Arthur's little girl! What 
are you doing here ? 

Alice. (Jur pretty cottage bm-nded all up, and Mamma was dreadfully burnded, 
too, saving me. If she hadn't, she'd lost everything. We's most starved to death 
ever since. 

Del. Why did she not let me know of this ? 

Alice That's what I folded her, but she said she could not bear to pay any 
more taxes on your bounty, and that God would take care of us; but, though we've 
both prayed, 0, .so hard, he never comes. Perhajis, Mr. Goodman, ha's so old that 
he's deaf and can't see or liear us. 

Del. He has heard you, my poor child. Where is your mother ? 

Alice. Down in the dark alley and up ever so many stairs. 

Del. Come, we'll go to her at once. 

Alice. Yes, Mr. Goodman; but please don't walk very fast. My legs seem so 
heavy lately. 

Del. Poor little thing! Then I'll make mine do duty for both. {Taking her up 
in liis arms.) So, here we go! 

Alice. This is the way. You play good genie and I'll be the bootiful princess 
of Chiiiaware, and we'll fly away to the bakery. 

{Enter Fairlook and Nighthawk — the former into.x leafed.) 

Fair. {To Delmont.) Halloo, old baby carriage! 

Alice. You has a bigger load than he has, Mr. Whiskey Carriage! 

Del. Hush, child! They are beneath notice. 

{E.Kit Delmont and Alice.) 

Night. Are you blind ? That was Delmont. 

Fair. No! Was it? It's a smart man that knows his own father-in-law; but a 
smarter one that knows his own son-in-law. " I'll ilrop 'round, apologize, introduce 
myself, and ask him to take a drink. 

Night. Y(ju'11 do nothing of the sort. 

Fair. Won't I ; Well, you try to stop me, and yon won't do any calling, except 
for arnica, for some time to come. 

Night. I never saw you in this shape before. You're crazjM 

Fair. You're drunk. Go to berl. 

Night. You're going to the devil. 

Fair. No, he's following me. 

{E.rit Faiulook foUuived by Nighthawk.) 



Scene 4.— Reception Room in Belmont's House. 

{Enter Nanny ivith hroom. and dustpan followed by Faiulook.) 

Nanny. {After Fairlook han made a maudlin effort to take hold of her and 
she has pushed him atcati.) Hands off the brasses. {Aside.) The noble villian's 
as boozy as a Busting prize-fighter. 

Fair. ( 'Throwing a handful of change at her.) Take that to polish them up 
with. 

Nan. {Siveejjing up the coins.) They're what dad used to call shinei-s, and I'm 
not too proud to try 'em. 

Fair. Where's 1113'— I mean Miss Ruth ? 

Nan. I don't know, sir. 

Fair. {Falling into a chair.) Then I'll wait for her. 

Nan. Take a friend's advice, Mr. Fairlook, and don't do it. 

Fair. That was Punch's advice to a man about to get maiTied. It don't apply 
to me. 

Nan. Yes it do, Mr. Fairlook. 

Fair. How so ? 

Nan. Because she'll never be Mr.s. Fairlook if she sees you in this shape. 

Fair. Won't she ? I'll just bet you ten to one she does" What's the matter with 
my shape any way ? 

(Ruth, speaking from outside— Nanny ! Nanny!) 
Nanny. Holy smoke, there she is now! And I'll just bet you a hundred to ten 
you'll think the noble villian fell into the cistern hisself, in January, and wished he'd 
a drownded there. 

{Ruth, outside — Nanny, where are you f) 

Nan. Yes, mum, Fs comin'. • {Exit Nanny.) 

{Enter Ruth.) 

Ruth. John here, and not well ? What can Nanny mean ? ( Sees Fairlook 
dozing in a chair.) John, my love, what is the matter ) Are you ill ? For pity's 
sake, answer me! 

Fair. Yes: teri'ible pain in my brandy and peppermint— took too much colic — 
gone to head. 

Ruth. His mind wanders! He is delirious! John, can't you understand me, 
darling ? What brought you here ? 

Fair. A hack. Is that you, lady-bird ? Come perch on my knee, and I'll sing 
to thee. 

Ruth. This is dreadful! What shall I do ? What shall I do ? 

Fair. {Staggering to his feet.) IStand steady, lady-bird. (Embraces her.) 

Ruth. {Breaking away from him.) Merciful heavens, he's drunk! {Fairlook 
approaches her.) IStand back, sir! There's pollution in your touch! 

Fair. Won't you kiss and make up ? 

Ruth. Never, sir, until you beg my pardon on your knees, and swear never to 
let me see you thus degraded again. Oh, John, my husband, is this your love for 
me ? If so, then strike me dead, before I learn to hate and despise you. 

Fair. First time in my life, I swear it. Must have been drugged. Forgive me, 
darling, and I'll do anything you say. 

Ruth. Then, if j'ou have any love and pity for me, take mercy on me, and leave 
this place at once. Every moment you remain is an age of agony to me. 

Fair. Give me just one forgiving kiss and I'll do it. 

Ruth. Only obey me ana Til give you anything. ( Kisses him.) Now go, 
John, that's a dear, good fellow! Go instantly, and while there is yet time. 

Fair. But when shall I see you again, sweetheart ? 

Ruth. This evening! To-morrow! Anytime! But now, Go! Go! 

Fair. I'll go as fast as John Gilpin did, and as reluctantly. ( Going.) 

{Enter Delmont and Dr. Sternlaw.) 

When we meet again {runs against Delmont) — What do you mean ? 
Ruth. {Aside.) My father! What will become of us ? 
Del. You here ? 
Fair. So it would seem. 

Del. I did not expect to meet you a second time to-day. 
Fair. And I hardly expected to run against you again, either. 
Del. How dare you cross my tUreshold and intrude upon my daughter ? Your 
very presence breeds debauchery and contamination. 



19 

Fair. Opinions may differ about, that. Ask her. 

Del. Ruth, what does this mean ? Have you received this besotted reprobate, 
and in this condition ? 

Ruth. I could not avoid it, father. 

Del. I beg your pardon for asking such a question. Of course you could not 
help it. The drunken blackguard forced himsolf upon you. ( To Fair-look.) Quit 
the bouse before I so far forget myself as to soil my hands with you. 

Fair. (Advnvcing.) Would vou ? 

Del. {Advancing.) Would I? 

Ruth. (Rushing behueen them.) Father! Father! What would you do « 

Del. Stand aside! 

Ruth. Not if you kill me will I permit you two to rend each other. Force is not 
required. He will go— he promised me. Won't you, Mr. Fairlook ? I implore you. 
( Ji.sn/e.) If you would not murder me, go! 

Del. Peace, child! You shall not demean your.self by pleading with, or even 
speaking to, such as be. But, as you wish it, there shall be no violence'. We will 
dispose of him more fittingly. {Ringing the bell.) 

Fair. Look you, Delmont; on that girl's account, I've stood more from you 
than I ever did from any other living man. I'll take no more of it. 

{Enter Nanny.) 

Del. {To Nanny.) Summon an officer at once. 

Nan. An bossifer ? 

Del. Do as I bid you, instantly. 

Nan. ( Aside.) Well, if I calls a cop may I be pinched fust. 

{Exit Nanny.) 

( To Fairlook.) I'll teach you the only kind of lesson that such as you can under- 
stand, and put you beyond the power of insvdting either of us further. 

Ruth. Father, though I di.sobey you, this must not be. ( To Fairlook.) Leave 
us, sir, I command you! To stay means ruin! Are j^ou mad ? 

Fair. Yes, baited to it. {To Delmont.) You'll send me to the lock-up, will 
you ? Well, then, you'll send my wife to keep me company. 

Del. That's no affair of mine. It would seem a fitting place for any woman 
that would call you husband. 

Fair. Would it, indeed? Well, then, come Ruth, we'd best be moving. 

Ruth. {Aside.) Lost! Lost! 

Del. {Seizing a chair.) Dare to so much as even look at her again, and I'll brain 
you. 

Fair. I don't ask even your permission to address my own wife. 

Del. My daughter your wife! Ha, ha! Why this is the monstrous grotesqueness 
of delirium tremens. 

Fair. Does she look as though it was? 

Del. Ruth, why do j^ou hang jour head and tremble so? Fear not, my 
daughter. Face this foul slanderer ; tell him he lies, and trust me to avenge it. 

R,uth. I cannot, father. 

Del. Cannot ? But I see, poor child, this scene has unnerved you. Collect your 
senses and answer me. 

Ruth. I have already done so, father. 

Del. You have not answered me, but shall! What is this man to you? 

Ruth. All that he claims, father. 

Del. I'll not believe my loins could breed such wanton, hideous treachery and 
ingratitude. The insanity of fear has made you, for the first time, stain your virgin 
lips with falsehood. 

Ruth. Father, 1 cannot add the weight of falsehood to my other sins. He speaks 
the truth. 

Del. And you, my only child, that I have loved and trusted so utterly, live to 
cower there and tell me that you have forsaken and betrayed j^our God, your people, 
and your father, for such a drunken scoundrel and fortune-hunter as that ? 

Ruth. Oh, father, on my soul you wrong him! He is brave, true and: generous, 
and I love him. Forgive him for my sake. 

Del. I will forgive him before 1 will forgive such .shameless treason in my own 
fle.sh and blood. I am not his father. You! you! make me thank God that your 
mother did not live to this day. Who are you, that you should ask forgiveness? 
Away with j^ou! I know you not! I had a daughter once, but she is dead, too. 

Fair. Take her back, sii", and, much as I love her, I swear to you never to look 
upon her face again. 

Del. I will not be outdone in generosity; not even by a thief. Keep her, 
and may her poverty not lessen her attractions. When you stole her from me, 



t2(i 

you robbed her of even vvliat her iimther left her; for if she married without my 
full eoiiseiit, she lost all. Huc-h a price as that should purchase a rare husband. 

KuTii. Father, pardon! pardon! For my dear, dead mother's sake, do not com- 
pletely crush the hrart of la-r poor child. 

Fair. Are you a hell-boiu tiger, that you refuse to hear her? 

Del. I hear the snarling of the sneaking wolf tliat devoured my one poor ewe 
lamb— nothing more. 

Ruth. (Kiieeilnri to Dr. Steralaw.) Rabbi, Rabbi! I have always loved and 
honored you, and 1 implore you to intercede for me. Hpeaktohim! Oh, reason 
with him ! He will listen to you. 

Rab. I am powerless. You have voluntarily placed yourself beyond the pale of 
ni}- protection. 

Ruth. Is there, thfii, no niercy. in Heaven, or on Earth, for me? 

Hab You have said it. 

Fair. And I say, you hoary-headed, heartless bigot, that you are more devil 
than priest. Come away, Ruth, or I shall do mischief here. (Takes Ruth by the 
hand.) 

Ruth. Father, may I not say farewell to j^ou ? 

Del. I disown, disinherit and forget you. Begone, before I curse you, even as 
1 do him. 

Ruth. No, no, father! Not that! Not that! 

Del. Away with you! Away with you! (Rath and Fairlook go out.) God of 
my fathers, why hast thou forsaken me ? (Falls into a chair, with his face tniried 
in his arms.) 

[ Curtain. ] 



31 



ACT V. 



Scene I.— Fairlook's Lodgings. 

(Enter Pairlook.) 

Fair. What has come over me ? My wits, courage, and even luck, fail me ; and 
at the time, too, when I need them most. Her purity and loving; trust seem to have 
exercised my twin familiar devils of swindling art and never-failing nerve, and 
irresolution and weak remorse have usurped their place, to render every plan and 
effort dangerously futile. Is there no master-stroke by which I can secure the 
means to leave this place, and in some strange land begin a new life, worthy of 
such a wife ? Satan, my patron saint, smile on me but once again, and I vow never 
more to importune you. Surely my devotion to you deserves this much. (Knock 
at door.) Another vainly climbing creditor, most likely. Come in ! 

(Enter Nighthawk.) 

Night. Good morning, Fairlook. 

Fair. Well met. I was just thinking of you. 

Night. Pleasant thoughts, I trust. 

Fair. At least appropriate ones. 

Night. Where is your wife ? 

Fair. Out for a mouthful of fresh air. It is one luxury she can enjoy, poor girl, 
because it costs her nothing. 

Night. That's lucky, for I want some private talk with you. But what ails 
ycu ? You look as chop-fallen as a homeless dog. 

Fair. I am one. 

Night. Well, it must be from choice, then. 

Fair. From choice, you limb of hell ? Do you think I'd see her want, from 
choice ? I'd coin my black heart's blood, di'op by drop, to purchase comfort for 
her. 

Night. There is a way much easier, and far less heroic. 

Fair. Don't trifle with me. I'm desperate, and wont stand it. 

Night. I am not trifling, and deliberately repeat, there is an easier way. 

Fi«iR. How, then ? 

Night. You have but to stretch out your hand and take what justly belongs to 
her. 

Fair. A fool's advice. The law wont let me touch it. 

Night. Then do it without the law. 

Fair. That is impossible. 

Night. Again I say it is an easy thing, if jon can bu* summon up the pluck to 
undertake it. 

Fair. If you dare to slur my courage, I'll give you ample proof of it. 

Night. I need none ; but this is a peculiar case. Be reasonable, can't you, and 
hear me out ? 

Fair. If you don't want me to shake it out of you, come to the point at once. 

Night. Delmont keeps large sums of money in his house, besides valuable secur- 
ities, which, with the backing of your magic pen, might be readily negotiated. 

Fair. He would even see his daughter starve before he would give us a farthing; 
and I would rather do so than beg one fi'om him. 

Night. Precisely ! But supposing we were to call, very privatelj'-, rather late, 
some convenient evening, and kindly save him the trouble of refusing ? 

Fair. What ! Would you tempt me to rob my own wife's father '. 

Night. By no means ! For, in the first place, he is not her father. He has dis- 
owned her, and j'ou know him well enough to understand that he will never for- 
give her ; at least, not so long as you live. Secondly, and morally, there is no rob- 
bery in this case. You are merely taking what rightfully belongs to your wife, 
and of which he would rob her, on a mere legal quibble. 

Fair. That's true ; curse his heartless avarice ! But while these arguments 
justify me, they don't apply to you. 

Night. O, I'm merely helping you to your own, you see. 



Fair. Veril}-, a model and most disinterested fr-iend. 

Night. Not entirely, and I make no pretense of being-. The fact is, I'm as hard 
pushed as yonrself, and this city is getting too hot to hold me. I must have money; 
Tm willing to take the ri.sk of (lelping- you to get it, and I expect you to pay me 
well for it. Now we understand each other, and I've but one more ai-guinent to 
add, and it's a mighty strong one, you will do well to weigh. You've bungled 
lately, and gossip's tongue is whis])ering some rather ugly things about you. Soon 
she will be in full cry, snarling and snapping at your heels. Consider what that 
means; — exposure, ruin and disgrace. And what will your wife ihink of you f 

Fair. Say no more ! I'll do it ! But, in her holy name, I swear that it shall be 
the last crime of my life. 

Night. And of mine. I'd best be going now. Meet me at the Glub in an hour, 
and we'll perfect oia- plans. You'll not fail me ^ 

Fair. VV^hen did you ever know me fail to keep an appointment with the devil ? 

{Enter Ruth.) 

Ruth. O ! John, dear, I've had such a delightful walk. That is, it would have 
been had you been with me. ("/b Niglithawk.) Excuse me, sir, I did not see you. 

Night. How do you do, Mrs. Fairlook ? You certainly are the charming pic- 
ture of perfect health. 

Ruth. I am quite well, thank you, sir. 

Night. Deliglited to hear it. Well, 1 must be off. So long, old fellow. See 
you later. Good day. Mrs. Fairlook. 

Ruth. Good morning, sir. {Exit Nighthawk.) 

Fair. {Aside.) She looks like an .accusing angel. 

Ruth. What did that man want here, John ? He seems a bird of evil omen. 

Fair. Nonsense, my superstitious little pet. He mei'ely called to advise me of 
a transaction that may greatly benefit the distinguished Fairlook family. 

Ruth. I detest and fear him. Oh, my husband, ti'ust to the instinct of the one 
that loves you best of all, and have nothing to do with that man. 

Fair. Not after to-day, fair sibyl, I swear to you ; for then I hope to take you 
far from here, where naught but peace and happiness await you, for all the years 
to come. 

Ruth. This seems a very sudden resolution. 

Fair. And yet, sweetheart, it is one I have long and seriously contemplated. 
But, if you object, I will abandon it at once. 

Ruth. John, dear, do you remember what I said to you the day I consented to 
become your wife ? 

Fair. Yes, darling. 

R,UTH. I meant it, John, and hold it sacred, as I do every promise made to you. 

Fair. Oh, my precious, peerless wife ! Would to God that I were worthy of 
you ! 

Ruth. Hush, my darling ! I will not permit even you to disparage my husband, 
lord and king. I am the one to plead unworthiness. 

Fair. No ! no ! Don't say that, Ruth ! I could die with shame and remorse, 
when I think of what I have brought you to. 

Ruth. That was an accident, love, born of a moment's weakness ; for which 
you have amply atoned by the most tender penitence. It must have come sooner, 
or later, and let us hope that it is best as it is. 

Fair. Hereaftei-, if I can prevent it, you shall never have occasion for regret. 
Trust me that much, my life. 

Ruth. I have trusted you with my love, life and honor, John. It was the only 
portion I could bring you. Treasure it ; for if it ever grows valueless to you, in 
that hour I shall surely die. 

Fair. (Aside.) Oh, innocence ; what boundless torture you can inflict on guilt ! 
I can endure this no longer ! 

{Enter Nanny, ivith a basket.) 

Nan. Can I come in ? 

Ruth. Why, it's Nanny ! {Embracing her.) You dear, darling, blessed thing, 
you ! How glad I am to see you ! 

Nan. Well, this is a unexcepted honor; as the gentleman said when the hangman 
bowed to him. 

Fair. How do you do, Nanny ? I'm right glad to see you, too. 

Nan. Thank you kindlj', sir. 

Ruth. Come and sit right down here this minute, and let me feast my eyes on 

Nan. I've fetched somethin' for you to feast your stummick on, and that'.s more 
substanshcler. Thing-a-migigs 1 made myself, an' they's got a real home taste to 
'em, too. Miss Ruth. 



2-'] 

Ruth. How can I ever thank you ? 

Fair. This is evidently a cnse'where two is company and three is none. So I'll 
leave you to yonrselvps. By-the-way, Ruth, I havB to "go to Norvvalk on the bus- 
iness I spoke to you about, and may not return before morning. ISo don't sit up 
for me. 

Ruth. You never staid away so long as that before. 

Pair. Nor would I now, were I not making a great sacrifice for vour sake, 
dearest. Don't make it harder i\y objecting so pitifully. 

Ruth. If it is for the best, I'll bear it bravely, John. There {Kissing him), 
take that big kiss for good luck, and heaven speed you in your enterprise, and 
satel3- back to me. 

Fair. {Aside.) A wish that seems to chill me like a curse. 

^r , , , , , , (Exit Fairlook.) 

Nan. You look pale and thm, Miss Ruth. Is the noble villain kind to vou « 

Ruth. Who? ^ 

Nan. The noble villian. Him. {Fointing ovpr her shoulder wil.h her thumb.) 

Ruth. Have no fears on that score. He is the best of husbands. 

Nan. Well, he'd better be, if he don't want a taste of my quality ; as the red 
pep])er said to the monkey's eye. 

Ruth. How is my father, Nanny ? 

Nan. Well, he ain't percatly in shape for a six days' go-as-you-please in Madi- 
son Square Garden ; but he's so's to be able to look on. 

Ruth. Poor father ! Does he ever speak of me ? 

Nan. Never— that is, I«nean before company, you know ; but he do talk a great 
deal to hisself latelj-, and once, I i-ealy berlieve, I actooalv caught him crvin'. 
(RiUh weeps.) {Aside.) Burn my fool kisser, what did I let that out for ? Don't 
cry, Miss Ruth, or you'll set my pumps to goin', and they leaks orfully when thev 
gits started. {Cries loudly.) Cheer up, that's a dear. 1 really berlieve he's weak- 
uin'. 

Ruth. Weakening ? 

Nan. Yes; he's softnin' wonderful, and, would you berlieve it ? never finds no 
fault no more about anythin' I busts or spibs ; and even seems to take comfort in 
seein' me around, like. I really and truly berlieves, on my most solermnest and 
sacredest swear, that his mulishness is gittin' winded, and that he'll throw up the 
sponge. 

Ruth. Throw up the sponge ? 

Nan. You bet ! And buy all the veal in the butcher shop, and hii-e a brass band, 
to welcome the proudeagle gal home agin. 

Ruth. Oh, Nanny, if I could but hope he would ever forgive me ! 

Nan. Never you fear. Miss Ruth. It's 'comin', and its got to come; 'cause its 
agin natur for it to do otherwise. So just dry youi- sweet eyes, and hang on to the 
sheet iron of hope. I'll stick to him, 'caus^ I promised you I Wwuld, and I'll watch 
his sympterms like a big-bug doctor would them of a railroad president. 

Ruth. But I may have to leave here to-morrow, Nanny, and it seems as though 
I should die if I did not see his dear face once more, and it may be for the last 
time. 

Nan. Lor', that's easier'n fallin' through the cellar door! Put on your things 
and come right along with me. He's orful res'less, and wanders round, and aint 
likely to come in 'till ail hours in the mornin'. I'll slip you up to my boodvvar in 
the attic, and you can get a good peep at him somt^how. 

Ruth. I must and will risk it. I cannot resist the impulse. 

Nan. Let me just put this truck away, and trofs the word. 

[Hvd Nanny, with basket.) 

Ruth. All my father's wealth could not buy one such friend as that. 

{Enicr Nanny.) 

Nan. Now, come along. To hesitate is to be bilked. 

{Exit all, ) 



Scene II. — The Reception Room in DelmonVs House. 

{Enter Delmont.) 

Del. It is very late, and I am weak and wear}-, almost unto death, and yet, 

neither my once sovereign will, nor the most potent sense-benumbing drugs, ca?i 

conquer or appease the pain and liunger ever gnawing here {plaviucj nis hand on 

his heart) ; or give me but one little hour of sleejj. Tliis place, but yesterday so 



24 

sunny with tlie radiance of lior beauty, and softly tuneful with the melody of her 
sweet voice, seems like a dark and silent living grave ; whose vacant coldness chills 
nie to the soul. (Sits in easy chair at fable, and looks at a documeaf.) This seals 
and satisfies the law of my belief. The law ? Is there, then, no hope of an appeal 
from it to the omnipotence of mercy and forgiveness, far above the limits of its 
iron jurisdiction ? The pride of habit and of doctrine answer. No ! But outraged 
nature, with outstretched arms and streaming eyes, sobs. Yes ; and like the royal 
mourner, of whose lineage I am, and whoso )iame I bear, my over-tortured heart 
cries out : Oh, Paith, my child ! my child ! Would to God that I had died for 
thee 1 (Sinks back in chair.) 

(Enter Pairlook and Nighthawk, roughhj dressed and masked : the latter car- 
rying a bag of burglar's tools.) 

Night. All's qniet, and the coast is clear. (Advance<; ; sees Delmont ; starts 
back; takes Faniook by the arm and points to Delmont.) 

Fair. What's to be done ? 

Night. [Producing a shmg-shot.) He's asleep. Let's make it a sound one. 

Fair. (Seizing Nighthawk.) Not that ; nnle.ss you want to die yourself. I will 
not have her fa*:her's blood upon my hands. It is 'enough to gag and bind him. 
(N'ghthawk takes off his neckerchief and steals toward Deimon . Looks at him 
and .^fops.) 

Night. Great God, Fairlook, he's dead ! 

Fair. Dead ? Yes, so indeed he is. There's no mistaking the imprint of that 
awful seal. Cover up his face. Those stony eyes seem to summon me to join hini. 

Night. (Covering Delmont's face with the neckerchief.) Weak superstition. 
He'll trouble you no more. 

Fair. Who knows that ? 

Night. (Opening a bag and laying a jimmy and one or tivo other tools on the 
table.) At least he'll not meddle with the job We have in hand, and I'd thank him 
for his consideration, if he could hear me. 

Fair. What is that paper in his hand ? 

Night. We have no time to waste in idle curiosity. 

Fair. Give it to me, I say ! 

Night. (Takes paper and looks at it.) And well it may interest you. It is his 
will. (Hands paper to Fairlook.) 

Fair. It is ; and duly signed and witnessed. (Looks it over.) Millions to char- 
ity, but not so much to his only child as even the bare mention of her name. 

Night. Well, there's no use crying over spilt milk. Come, I say, let's get to 
work and out of this. 

Fair. Why, you thieving bat, put up your useless kit. A single match is all the 
tool we need to pick the bigot-guarded lock to all this unforgiving father's riches; and 
thus vanishes all record of the past, and from its ashes shall, Jfhoenix like, arise an 
honest life. (Lights match, and setsfri'. to the will.) 

Night. What noise was that? (Fairlook tiastilii crams the luill into his coat 
pocket. Nighthaivk hurricdlij glances into halhvay.) To cover ! To cover 1 
(They conceal, themselves ; but, in his haste, Nighthaivk forgets tools lymg on the 
tablet. 

(Enter R,uth, very cautiously.) 

Ruth. I'm sure I heard him come in some time ago. He must have gone to bed. 
(Looks about, .sees Delmont, and draws back.) No, thecc he is! (Adranres cau- 
tiously.) And sound asleep. Oh, fa — , but, no ! no ! I must not awake him — he 
might curse me for it. (Kneels by Delmont's chair.) If I only dared to kiss his dear 
hand, this parting might not seem quite so dreadful. (Weeps; gently lifts 
Delmont's hand and kisses it repeatedly.) Poor, poor, thin hand; how cold it is. 
{Looks at Delmont.) He does not even seem to lireathe. That's very strange ! 
(Rises, looks at Delmont, and then disc vers the tools left by Nighthtack on the 
table.) What's here ; Father! Awake ! awake ! Speak "to nie! (Snatches hand- 
kerchief from Delmont's face ) Great God, they've murdered him! (Staggers 
and clutches table for suppo t.) 

Night. (Apj^earing and drawing a bowie-knife.) Utter a sound and it will be 
j'our last. 

Ruth. (Seizing thejimmi/ and springing between Nighthaivk and entrance to 
hallway.) Villian. if >ou escajie, it shall be only (wer my dead body. Help! 
Murder ! Murder ! (Nighthawk ruslies upon her, but is met and grappled with by 
Fairlook. Tl>ey struggle fiercely). 

Nan. (Outside.) Perlice ! Ferlice ! 

Night. (Stabbing Fairlook, who groans and fulls.) I'll kill you all before I 
will be trapped ! 



25 

(Enter Nanny, in her nic/hf -dress ; and armed with a brace ofbiq, old-fashioned 
pistols, which she (tims at Niyhthawk). 

Nan. You'd better stand still riglit where you be. They're hair jiggers, and the 
slightest jar will turn 'era loose. Git behind me Miss Ruth ! I'll stop him, dead 
sure. 

(Enter Policeman.) 

Pol. What's all this row about ? 

Nan. You're one of the few early Blue Birds, and there's your worm. Sic him, 
Mr. Copper ! 

Pol. (To Nighthawk.) Drop that knife and throw up vour hands, or I'll let 
daylight throui^h you. (Nightiiawk drops knife near Fairlook.) 

Fair. (Aside.) I'm done for, but I'il do her one last kindness before I go. 
J* umb/eH painfully and iveaklij for the will and a mutch, while Policeman hand- 
cuffs Nighthawk.) 

Ruth. Who is this assassin ? 

Nan. Let's look at you. (Tears off Nighthaxok's mask. ) 

Ruth. Nighthawk ! 

Night. Yes, and not the only rare bird you have caught. 

Fair. (Striking a match and trying to light the loill.) (Aside.) It's soaked in 
my own blood, and I cannot light it. 

Pol. What are you doing there ? 

Fair. Trying to make my last will and testament— that's all. 

Pol. (Taking icill.) I'll take care of this. 

Ruth. Who is this other murderer ? (Attemjjts to remove Fairlook'' s mask.) 

Fair. (Feebly resisting.) For both your sake and mine, spare me ! 

Ruth. Spare you ? I'd tear it off, though your eve-balls came from their sock- 
ets with it. (Palls off mask.) My husband ? No! No! This night's awful work 
has driven me mad, and fills my reeling brain with cheating, hell-born visions ' 
My John ; my worshipped, honored husband ; my father's slayer and a prowling 
thief ? It is not he ! Some murderous fiend has stolen his noble semblance ! 

Fair. With my last breath, I implore you to forgive me, Ruth, for, guilty as I 
am, I have loved you. 

Ruth. Loved me ? Forgive you ? Why, so I ought. Sure'y such matchless 
love deserves some recompence. But favors too quickly granted loose their value. 
I will be generous with you, my noble, honest, loving lord and husband. 
{Pointing to Delmont.) When he forgives you, then I, too, will forgive you. When 
the frantic mother forgives the blood-stained savage who flings In her face the 
throbbing heart torn from her infant's breast, then I, too, will forgive you. When 
the snake-crowned sovereign of the hell that spawned you, and yawns to welcome 
your return with plaudits, learns honor, truth and mercy, I wih go to him, that he 
may teach me to forgive you ! 

Fair. Oh, remember 1 was your husband, and am a dying man ! 

Ruth. So I would have you, for it saves me from killing you ! My father 
cui'sed you, and, yet, what were his wx-ongs to mine ? You only stole his child, but 
you have robbed her of that father's love, her honor, hope and heaven. You only 
murdered him. What have fiou done to me f 

Fair. Be merciful, for 1 swear to you I did not harm him, but found him as he 
is. 

Pol. He speaks the truth, madam. There are no marks of violence upon your 
father. He died a natural death. 

Ruth. That's a most monstrous lie, and shall not sei-ve to protect the guilty. 
Poor soul, he died a most unnatural death. There are two murderei's here, and 
neither shall escape. (Laying her hand on the PoUcemaii's arm.) But, good Mr. 
Officer, one of them is a woman : a very wicked woman, who killed her poor, old 
loving father. Still she is a woman, and as such you may grant her one, small 
favor. Don't pinion her, and put the black cap on her guilty head, and the rough, 
.stranghng noose about her neck, first. (Pointing to Nighthawk.) Let her live long 
enough to see him hang. 

Night. Take me away ! Why do you keep me here ? 

Fair. Oh. Ruth; my wife ; my only love ; forgive, for — (Dies.) 

Pol. He is gone. 

Ruth. Gone ! Who's gone ? 

Nan. Him as was your husband, dearie. Come with me ! Come away from 
this dreadful place. 

Ruth. My husband gone ? Why, yes ; j'ou remember, Nanny ? You heard him 
say that he was going, but would return by morning. 

Nan. Alas I alas, deai'ie ! That morning will never come. 



Ruth. Win-, N^innyi wluit, do you mean by that '. He lias come back. I saw 
him but a few moments ago. Where was it ? (Looks aroiind.) Wliy, there he is 
now. But what does he tlit.'re ? {KaceUny at Fairlook^s side.) Get up, my love! 
This i=: no time to sleep. Your clothes are damp, you most imprudent boy. You'll 
catch j'our death. (Looks at. her hands and srirains.) It's blood! It's blood! 
and they have uuirdered him I (Picking Uj) knife.) And here's the knife that did 
the cruel deed. (Rises an^i goes to DAmont ) " Father, avenge him! (Looks at 
Dehnont.) What's this ? Why, he's dead, too, and I killed him. Nanny, come 
here ! 

Nan. Yf'S, dearie ; here I am. 

Ruth. Listen ! I once heai'd our good Rabbi pieach from the text, "An ej'e 
for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth," and he said it was Jehuva's revealed law. 
Then it must follow, a life for a life. Is not that so, Nanny ? 

Nan. I suppose so, dearie. 

Ruth. (Pointiwi to Nighthawk.) The law will make it so in bis case, and by 
the higher law it should be so in mine. A life for a life ; and thus I yield mine up, 
a living sacrifice for all my sins. (Stabs herself.) Father, I've made atonement 
to the law. Forgive me ! I come ! I come ! (Palls dead at Belmont's feet.) 

[Curtain.] 



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